


Subjunctive History

by Natbat



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Adult Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22945231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natbat/pseuds/Natbat
Summary: What was the real cause of Hector and Irwin's accident?
Relationships: Stuart Dakin/Tom Irwin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Subjunctive History

“Fuck off. Fuck. Right. Off.” I bite my lip to suppress a smile as a frisson runs through me, his tone warning and flirtatious, his whispered words catching me off guard in the pit of my stomach and my knees threatening to buckle. But I would never let him see. His breath plays against my cheek and I half-close my eyes, the realisation hitting home that I have never wanted him more than I do in this moment. I hand him the helmet and his fingers linger over mine, the contact a teaser for more to come. A smile flickers across the corners of his lips and I will myself not to redden beneath his stare. My cheeks behave themselves but I can feel another part of my anatomy betraying me. I shift a little to try and hide it, but he notices, I’m sure he notices, his smile broadening as he eventually breaks contact with me and turns to leave. I watch him go and find myself wishing it was me, not Hector, on that motorbike with him riding pinion behind me.

I can feel the eyes of my classmates on me (particularly Posner’s, which have an infuriating but flattering habit of seeking me out regardless of my location), and I straighten my shoulders and push out my chest, ready to occupy that alpha male role that they so readily expect of me.

Timms says something about us all going for a drink, and Scripps replies, “Dakin’s already got _drinks_ plans this week, haven’t you Dakin?” The emphasis on the D word suggests an alternative meaning, a euphemism not lost on my erstwhile confidante. I barely even care about the wolf-whistles and braying from the others. All I can think about is him, desperately fending off Hector’s fumbling advances… I shift again, clear my throat and make my excuses. If I can’t be with him, I need to be alone right now.

* * *

The solitude of my room is welcome on my return home, and I click the lock shut behind me. I waste no time in drawing the curtains (although not before taking a wistful look in the direction of Hector’s homeward journey), and throw myself on the bed, just lying back and allowing my breathing to steady. I replay the whispered words from earlier in my head and enjoy the feeling of constriction in my uniform trousers. Not touching… just lying. Just thinking. Just feeling.

In my mind’s eye, it’s myself and not Hector that he follows back to the bike. I sit astride it and he slips on behind me, his hips pressed up against me and his fingers around my waist. The imagined sensation is so vivid that I can no longer hold off the inevitable… I slip my hand under my waistband and let myself enjoy the feeling, imagining my own fingers are his, reaching around me from behind, teasing and massaging me to full attention.

My fantasy progresses and I switch the engine on, the thrumming of each gear shift sending vibrations through us both, and I feel him harden behind me.

Back in reality, my trousers are off completely now, the thin cotton of my Calvin Kleins putting up little defence against my probing fingers, and I’m back inside my head again, speeding through country roads at 50 miles per hour, but paying little attention to the road conditions. Instead, one hand is behind me, in a move so perfected by Hector over the years. As I reach between his legs to touch him, so he reciprocates, a fumbling mass of fingers and fists. Controlling the motorbike is hard, but controlling him is easy, despite my own distraction. An expert combination of grasps and flicks, pumps and tickles, and he is putty in my hands. I push against his own hand as I hear him moan, the sound muffled by his helmet. I’m grunting myself, his own dynamic digits sending sparks through my body… but force myself to hold back, for in this fantasy- just like in reality- I am in charge. And, as the road beneath us shoots past I keep him teetering- stopping and starting, teasing and tormenting. I lose my sense of surroundings, but I believe it’s somewhere just past the roundabout on the B6265 that I finally release him, one last grip and tug and he slumps against me, the gurgled gasp escaping his throat pushing me over the edge too and, in my head and in my bedroom, the fantasy me and the real me both have the most intense orgasm we’ve ever experienced.

I open my eyes and my mental images start to fade as the room drifts back into focus, the dusk light slowly settling outside, Calvin Kleins long since discarded on the floor. I smile to myself as I grab a tissue to wipe down my damp palm and wander back to the window, peering through the curtains again in the general direction of the roundabout. I’m looking forward to Sunday.

* * *

We will never know exactly what happened. Irwin can’t remember so he’s no use. Some think Hector wasn’t used to Irwin’s additional weight. Someone suggested Hector had been up to his old tricks again and Irwin had caused a skirmish when he resisted, but I can’t believe that’s true. Scripps reckons he leant the wrong way coming out of a corner and unbalanced Hector. This is possible. Probable, even. But I can’t help wondering what could have caused that distraction. I briefly wonder if it is at all possible that he was ensconced in his own fantasy triggered by our last contact; that his grip on reality faded and gave way to the pictures in his mind, just has mine had… except I was in the safer surrounds of my bedroom at the time. Fanciful, perhaps, to think that his imaginings mirrored mine, that he pictured me and not Hector on the front of the bike, and considered, as I did, what we might be doing to each other? I want to dismiss this notion outright, but something compelled me to ask: “Where exactly did it happen?”

“Somewhere just past the roundabout on the B6265,” came the reply.


End file.
